


Cover Me

by AC_DeanC



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A little bit of angst, F/M, One Shot, fluff if you squint, im bad at tagging, short and sweet, the trench coat we all know and love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:28:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22647913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AC_DeanC/pseuds/AC_DeanC
Summary: The four times the angel gives you his trench coat.And the one time he doesn't.
Relationships: Castiel/Reader, Castiel/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 117





	Cover Me

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's usually 5+1, but with the way things were going four just happened to fit better. I usually don't write one-shots, but I had fun writing this. Enjoy!

The first time, it's just after a hunt, a simple salt-and-burn that turned out to be a bit more complicated than you'd originally thought. Anna Morrison is a cold, unforgiving soul, and not even after her girlfriend apologizes and explains the misunderstanding does she become any less vengeful. 

The damned ghost jumps into your bones, pushes you and takes hold of the reins as she tries to wring the life from her ex-lover's porcelain neck. Your body is like ice, the air you pull into your lungs so cold it hurts to breathe. There's so much _hatehatehate_ that it makes your fingers curl tighter as her lover gasps for breath.

The only thing that keeps you from carrying out her wish is the searing burn that explodes at your back when one of the Winchesters shoot you with a salt round. You'd definitely be feeling that bruise for more than just a week, and both brothers refuse to tell you who fired the shot.

You’re in the backseat of the impala, door open as you stick your legs out, planting your feet firmly in the gravel, trying to find the warmth the ghost had stolen from you. Your lips are blue and your limbs are sore from how tight you've been tensing them. You'd particularly enjoyed setting her necklace ablaze.

It's the sudden warmth enveloping your shoulders that has you looking up, meeting the ocean's depths as they place a familiar tan trench coat around you. The heat seems almost foreign, but welcome, the iciness that holds your skin seeming to melt away as you grip the jacket.

“Thanks, Castiel,” you say, but the seraph is gone with a flutter of wings.

The second time, a downpour has left you and the angel stranded at a diner on your way back to the motel. You didn't bring the car, and the motel is at least two miles out.

The rain is frigid and unforgiving, raising goose-flesh on the skin it can find. You stand under the awning, contemplating how long you are willing to wait. You're shivering, and you wish you wore more than a cotton t-shirt.

Your mind barely registers the rustling of fabric, lost in thought, and it's only until the rain can no longer be felt that you are pulled from your thoughts.

The seraph is holding his coat above the two of you, offering a small smile that has your heart leaping up to your throat. Your skin is numb, and it burns when the tan material brushes up against it.

You make a run for it, heading back the motel, clumsily dragging the angel along. The ground is muddy and uneven, and the rugged terrain makes it hard to keep two people trapped beneath a thin jacket.

“Castiel!” You shriek as he stumbles and you tumble with him, and it sends you into a fit of laughter. The angel asks what you find funny, eyebrows furrowing, and it only makes you laugh harder. 

When you finally compose yourself enough to make it back to the motel, the Winchesters wonder why the two of you are soaked to the bone.

The third time, you and Team Free Will are at a bar, blowing off steam and letting the tension from the Skinwalker case be pulled from your muscles with crappy lighting, cheap booze, and poor music. You and the angel steal glances throughout the night, and it's only until a quick quip from Dean makes you realize that those blue orbs stare even when you aren't looking.

Dean orders the angel to get more drinks for the table, and he does, though a bit begrudgingly. You dodge any and all questions the Winchesters throw at you, denial being your middle name, deflection the game.

Your hunter's instincts tell you there are eyes on you, and you know well enough that they aren't the angel's. You ignore it, continuing to chat away with the two brothers, though you can feel the gaze intensify. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, a cold chill down your spine.

The sudden warmth thrown into your lap startles you, the heat of that tan jacket seeping into the skin of your bare legs. Drinks are angrily slammed onto the table, and the rest of the night is spent with the three of you figuring out what has turned the angel's mood sour.

“Castiel,” you say softly, and it's only when that ocean is directed at you that the oncoming storm seems to quell.

The fourth time, there's a hole in your chest. Big and gaping, as if a werewolf has reached in and yanked your heart out. It _hurts_. There are words being spoken in hushed voices, thrown back and forth over your head and you're too numb to hear it.

It shouldn't have been like this. This wasn't supposed to happen. Team Free Will would save the day, stop the world from ending and everything would be alright.

Only, they hadn't. At least, not all of them.

There's a burning pyre in front of you, high and mighty, so tall the flames nearly lick the trees. The sky is dark and clear, offering no tears to the fallen. A hunter's funeral.

You're cold despite the blazing heat, that iciness dancing along your skin before it settles as a lump lodged thick in your throat. Another promise broken, and you can't look the towering figures beside you in the eyes.

There's a hand on your shoulder, your name on the lips of the ones who told you everything would be okay. That tan fabric is gripped tight in your fingers, but it's cold, and no matter how much you prod that heat doesn't come back.

“ _Castiel_ ,” you choke, the storm of tears you'd tried to keep at bay spilling over and threatening to sweep you up in the tide. 

You've taken to wearing the trench coat at all times, even sleeping in it. The brothers don't say anything the first few weeks they see you in it, though you catch the looks they give each other when they think you aren't looking.

You're coping, but the chasm within your chest is cold and empty, it aches like pins and needles pressing up against your skin, trying to break flesh.

The Winchesters suggest hunting, but you aren't in the right headspace, and when you nearly get taken out by a Rugaru, they bench you.

You misplace the jacket, and the brothers find you in hysterics, the bunker looking like a storm has rolled through it. You sob and there's nothing that'll console you. It's gone. _He's_ gone.

Months go by, filled with grey skies and aching loneliness, and one day the Winchesters receive a call in the depths of the night. Their voices are frantic and hushed, and Dean doesn't pay you any mind where you're sat on the floor of the library as he all but runs out of the bunker.

Books are scattered all around you, angel lore and anything else you can find that might help you once again see those striking blue orbs. You read long enough for the words to blur together, but that cold numb ache won't let you rest.

You hear Dean return, but you don't pay any mind to the footsteps headed towards you. You suspect you'll have to hear the words _move on_ once more.

At the lack of a lecture, you look up, and your heart stops when you find yourself staring into the deepest ocean, one that threatens to pick you apart and consume you whole.

“Castiel,” his name is a prayer on your lips that he swallows down, molten lava filling the icy pit he'd left behind.

The seraph doesn't give you his jacket. Instead, you tug on those tan lapels and pull him in close, not releasing him even when the sun comes up the next morning.


End file.
